A Hard Landing
by Got Well Soon
Summary: In 1919, World War I veterans Max & Chloe have immigrated to New York, a booming city where anything is possible. But when you're a stranger with a foreign accent and an illegal relationship, starting a new life isn't easy. Continues where The Blue Baron left off. Pricefield.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note:_ _This will make more sense if you read The Blue Baron first, we're very far from the source material here._

* * *

"Fine, send her in."

Max stood facing a door with "PICTURES EDITOR" printed in heavy black letters on the frosted glass. She took a deep breath and straightened her collar, as the door opened and the secretary, a pretty blonde in a sleeveless dress, emerged, motioning her inside. The editor, a youngish man, sat behind a broad desk covered in photographs and scribbled sheets of paper. An open window behind him gave a good view of the streets far below, but admitted little fresh air, and the August heat was oppressive. He had removed his jacket and loosened his tie, but his shirt was still visibly soaked under the arms. Max was glad for the relative airiness of her loose summer dress and cloche hat. He looked up at her impatiently as she sat in the chair facing his desk.

"You have your portfolio?" he asked. These newspaper men we always in a hurry.

"Yes, here," she said, handing him the slim book of photos. Almost all were recent city scenes: traffic, workers, merchants, people lounging in Central Park. Rich and poor. A few shots she'd taken aboard ship, and before that, back in England. Chloe smiling in full sun, sheep grazing in the background.

He took it and started quickly thumbing through it, scowling with concentration, occasionally nodding. "Done any retouching?" he asked.

"Yes," she nodded. She hated retouching photos. "At the back, I have a few before and after prints."

The man finished his perusal in silence, maintaining his impatient scowl. Finally he turned the last page, then closed the book and dropped it on the desk. "Competent," he said. "You have a good eye, but this isn't anything I don't have already. I'm sorry, but we don't have a suitable position."

Max grimaced. She was sick of that line. "Perhaps an unsuitable one, then? Surely the photography department is expanding." Everything in New York City was expanding. New York City was expanding.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

She took her portfolio and stood. "Thank you for seeing me," she said, walking out the door into the sweltering cacophony of the New York Times press floor. Shouting voices competed with chattering typewriters in a swirling chaos barely distinguishable from a general riot. She edged around the periphery to the elevator, and soon found herself back on the teeming streets of midtown Manhattan.

The continuous bustle of pedestrians, carriages, and automobiles, all surrounded by a thick soup of hot, damp air, was almost overwhelming. Her feet ached, and her hair was rimmed with sweat. It had never been this hot in England. She should head home and see how Chloe was getting on with the furniture.

That morning, home had been a hotel nearby, but the rate was usurious and they had hurried to find a more affordable, long-term arrangement. A couple of miles up town. Sick of pounding pavement, Max boarded an electric trolley, reluctantly handing over a nickel. She closed her eyes for the short trip up 9th Avenue, imagining herself in the cockpit of an airplane, alone in the sky rather than crammed into a packed trolley in a city of five million people.

Finally, she trudged up three flights of stairs, finding the door to number 31, her new home, ajar. The apartment was small but modern, a living room with kitchenette, with a wide opening to a bedroom, and a small private bathroom. This last seemed luxurious, with hot and cold running water and a good-sized tub with a shower. Americans were constantly bathing, and they took the problem of indoor plumbing very seriously.

In the bedroom, Chloe directed three burly men as they maneuvered a heavy mattress onto a brand-new bed. She spoke to them in German; they must have been fellow immigrants. New York was half-full of Germans. Old Ms. MacWilliams, the owner of the building, hovered over them, hands on her hips, clearly annoyed at having to allow men into her building. Although not sufficiently annoyed to help move the furniture.

Chloe glanced up at Max in the doorway, smiling hopefully, but Max shook her head. Still no luck. Flying corps officers were generously paid and they had arrived with more money than most, but their savings were dwindling fast. Everything was more expensive than it should be, and every day, a fresh wave of new arrivals flowed into the city, empty-handed.

Chloe gave her a sympathetic look, then returned her attention to the men. Ms. MacWilliams turned her sour expression toward Max, hands still on her hips.

"Miss Caulfield. Perhaps you will be more communicative than your friend here. Now that you are under my roof I'd like to remind you of the house rules—" she began.

Max cut her off. She had no patience left for the day. "No men, no pets, no alcohol, no noise between 11 and 7, no overnight guests, no candles or open flame of any kind, no alteration of the apartment without prior approval, no copies made of any keys, rent is due on the third of the month. Does that cover it?"

MacWilliams stared, no less annoyed. Clearly she enjoyed reciting her little list herself. "That's correct," she said eventually. "I must reiterate than violation of any of these rules is—"

"Grounds for immediate eviction," Max sighed. "Yes, Miss MacWilliams, you were quite clear on that point yesterday. I promise Chloe and I will be no trouble."

"I do hope that is the case. I find myself unable to make an impression on Miss Price. Do you speak German?"

Chloe loved to suddenly lose her English any time there was a conversation she'd rather avoid. Maybe for the best. "We communicate well enough," Max said.

MacWilliams looked back toward the workmen, now lining up a bureau against the bedroom wall. "One bed for two girls. I find this arrangement disconcerting."

Max shrugged. "Beds are expensive. We'll get another when we've rebuilt our savings."

MacWilliams finally took her hands off her hips. "I suppose that's sensible. I respect a girl who's financially prudent."

"Of course you do, it betters your odds of collecting the rent."

MacWilliams was silent, her lips pursed. In the other room, the men finished moving furniture and filed out, each touching his cap to Max as he went. MacWilliams followed, closing the door behind her.

At last, they were alone. The living room/kitchen had gained a dining table and two chairs, and Max slouched into one of them, dropping her portfolio on the table. Chloe sauntered over to where she sat.

"Nothing?" she asked, a hand on Max's shoulder.

Max huffed. "They all say exactly the same thing. 'We don't have a suitable position.' I can't believe that none of the papers in New York are hiring a photographer."

"Not a female photographer, anyway."

Max gestured at her portfolio. "Maybe these aren't good enough."

"Max, you are an excellent photographer. Those newspaper people think they have seen everything, nothing will impress them. We have been here less than two weeks. You will find work."

"Maybe."

"Certainly."

"Chloe… was this a mistake? The crowds, the expense, the noise, the weather, this… _tiny_ apartment. Prohibition on the way." Max looked down at the floor. "Maybe we should have stayed."

Chloe rolled her eyes, swinging a leg over Max's chair and sitting heavily on her lap, straddling Max's hips. "This city will be the capitol of the world," she said. "Everything is happening here. And around it, this great enormous country, untouched by war. You can photograph it all. If we had stayed, what would we have? In Britain? That very unpleasant woman, and thank you for dealing with her, multiplied a thousand times. A little country with no love for Germans. Or in Germany? Poverty. Chaos. And you don't even speak the language. This is where we belong. And… if I am wrong, we will go back. But not yet."

Of course they'd been over all of that before, but hearing it again made Max smile. As did Chloe's sudden closeness, her comforting solidity. But she was intolerably warm. "I still miss the farm. It's too hot here, get off of me."

Chloe laughed and obliged, standing. "You've forgotten how dull it was in that place. Here, I have a surprise." She walked into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe, and returned holding a wooden box and an oddly-shaped metal cone. Max didn't recognize the device until Chloe set it up on the table: a Victrola phonograph.

"Chloe!" Max exclaimed. "We agreed not to spend money on frivolous things."

"We were going to buy one eventually anyway. Now we can dance."

"I don't really know how to dance."

"That will not stop us. Dance with me." Chloe put a record on the spindle, turned the crank, and set the stylus. Like magic, they were listening to some sort of ragtime.

"What is this?" Max asked, laughing. She'd never owned a phonograph before.

"I have no idea! I asked for something popular." Chloe cocked her head, listening. "I like it. Come on, get up."

Reluctantly, Max stood, and Chloe took hold of her waist, moving her with the music. She followed as best she could, keeping time. It was fun.

But a minute into the song, a knock sounded at the door. Pouting, Chloe lifted the Victrola's needle, silencing the music. "Please don't tell me that music is also forbidden in this building, in addition to men and wine and animals and… ah I cannot remember it all." She hung back as Max went to the door.

Before she could open it, a voice sounded from the hall. "Don't stop the music on my account!" Feminine, Irish accent, definitely not Ms. MacWilliams.

Relieved, Max swung the door open to a pretty young woman, shorter than herself, pixie-cut black hair, bright green eyes, red lipstick. She wore a dark grey dress, conservative but light, and spoke with a rapid, breathless enthusiasm. "Hello! I'm Molly, live down the hall. I knew we had a new girl moving in and I heard the music and I thought I'd stop by and introduce myself."

"My name's Maxine, but just call me Max—"

"An Englishwoman! Such a lovely voice." Molly looked her up and down. "And the rest. Did you just come over?"

"About two weeks ago. We've been in a hotel in midtown."

"We?" Molly craned her neck around Max, eyes quickly darting over the apartment. "Oh, there are two of you, hello!"

Max stepped back from the door to introduce Chloe. "This is my… friend, Chloe."

"Guten Tag," said Chloe, warily.

Molly stepped inside. "Oh my, an Englishwoman and a German sharing a—" her eyes flicking to the lone bed, and she smiled. "Well, aren't you two a pleasant surprise? I was going to say 'hearth'. I hope Old Mac didn't give you a hard time, she's such a prude."

"Old Mac?" Max asked.

Molly laughed. "Oh, that's just what we call Miss MacWilliams. Not to her face, understand. Everybody here has had a run-in with her somewhere along the line. She's all talk though, you're safe as houses as long as you pay the rent and she doesn't see any men in here."

"Then I think we'll manage just fine," Max said.

Molly laughed. "Indeed." She looked between Max and Chloe, her expression full of childlike happiness. "Such an unlikely couple, I must know your story. Don't worry, I won't tell." She put a hand on Max's arm, smiling at her. It was disarming.

"Um," Max hesitated. She glanced at Chloe, who looked some combination of annoyed and amused.

"Liebe auf den ersten Blick," Chloe said, smirking.

Molly frowned. "Now that's just not fair."

"Don't worry," Max said, rolling her eyes, "I don't understand her either. We, ah, we don't talk about it much, but we were air pilots in the war—"

" _Airplane_ pilots? How extraordinary! Do they let women fly for the army over there?"

Max shook her head ruefully. "No, some subterfuge was required."

Chloe straightened to military attention and switched to her approximation of a male voice, harsh and loud. "Bereitmachen zu kämpfen!" she grunted.

Molly feigned a shudder, gripping Max's arm more tightly. "My heavens, she's terrifying!"

Max chuckled. She'd come to find Chloe's Conrad von Preiss routine rather silly, although it was probably more convincing than poor Maxwell Caulfield had ever been.

"In the war," she said, "that sort of shouting was the least of your problems. Anyway, we both ended up crashed into the same mountain. We camped together for a few months until they finally found us. By then the war was over."

"And you've stayed together ever since? That is wonderful." Molly looked at Chloe, who had relaxed and leaned against the table, arms folded. Still not exactly welcoming. "But now I'm just full of questions—"

"Really," Max said, "it's a long story. Another time."

"Yes," Molly nodded. "I apologize for the intrusion. But listen, we have a club, ladies only, girls with unusual taste if you know what I mean, you simply _must_ come by, you'll love it." She continued excitedly. "We have a piano, and a phonograph, and a bar, and it's _very_ private. Everyone will be so thrilled to meet you."

"Alright," Max said. They had yet to make any friends since they arrived.

"Good. I'll talk to Sam — she sort of runs the place — and we'll fix a date. I'm down in 35 if you need me." Molly clasped Max's hand in her own, and looked up at Chloe. "It was _so_ nice to meet both of you." With that, she walked out the door, waving happily.

"You," Max said to Chloe, "are absolutely ridiculous."

Chloe grinned at her. "These Americans are ridiculous."

"Chloe, her accent is plainly Irish."

Chloe shrugged. "I can't tell. They are all strange."

"I'm certain they'd say the same about us. Where were we?"

Chloe put the music back on, and took Max by the waist.


	2. Chapter 2

Max awoke to morning light and city noise. She listened for a while, concluding that their new uptown address was quieter than the hotel had been. Rolling over, she found Chloe propped up in bed, reading a novel. Voracious reading had been the key to her mastery of English.

"What have you got there?" Max asked.

"Picked it up yesterday. The Lost World, a 'ripping yarn', they said." Chloe smirked. "It's not ripping yet. He is preparing to go on a difficult and dangerous expedition solely to impress a woman. Here, listen," she said, skipping back a few pages. "She says 'There are heroisms all around us waiting to be done. It's for men to do them, and for women to reserve their love as a reward for such men,' and he immediately volunteers to seek out monsters in the untracked Amazon."

Max chuckled. "Well, they do call them boy's books. But I think you'd go on a difficult and dangerous expedition to impress me."

Chloe looked down at her. "I… I might. But not this one, it seems extravagantly foolish."

"If it wasn't extravagantly foolish, it wouldn't make for a ripping yarn."

"I suppose not." Chloe snapped the book shut. "Well, it is Sunday, there will be no job search today. I propose a… ah…" she cocked her head, frowning.

"Yes?"

Chloe held up a finger, then leaned over and picked up her well-worn German-English dictionary from beside the bed. She didn't need it often, anymore. She quickly flipped through it, then laughed.

"Ah! It is the same word. I propose a picnic."

They had explored Central Park — the jewel of the city — once upon their arrival, but this was their first chance to use it properly, to relax in the shade of a tree, away from hurly-burly of the city streets.

Max unfurled a blanket onto the grass, and Chloe set down the rucksack containing their lunch. She had forgone a dress in favor of knickerbockers, a loose white blouse, and eight-panel flat cap. They'd both gotten used to men's clothing during the war, but Chloe retained an abiding fondness for it, which suited Max fine. She was pretty even in trousers.

They lounged on the blanket, and Chloe flipped through the newspaper. "Picture section," she said, handing the photo insert to Max. The front page was entirely taken up by photos of a returning navy ship, packed with soldiers. It even included what looked like an aerial shot; Max had to admit it was pretty good, likely provided by the military. Turning the pages, though, things got less interesting. Mostly images of people posing, standing still. Sportsmen, politicians, pretty actresses, soldiers. Why would you show an athlete standing still?

"Ugh," she complained, "dull, dull, dull. I could definitely do better, that editor is terrible." Max turned another page, and saw a headshot of a man in a flight helmet. "'Roland Rohlfs, chief test pilot for the Curtiss Corporation, who a week ago made a new American altitude record…' But what's the use of this photo, it doesn't even show his plane."

"Hmm," Chloe mused, "chief test pilot. I wonder how you come to have that job. I am sure I have more flight expertise than Roland Rohlfs."

"They'd never believe you."

"I wonder, can you audition? Roland and I could have a mock dogfight; the winner would take the job."

Max grinned at the idea of a civilian test pilot unwittingly going toe to toe with the war's most famous combat ace. But she doubted you could win the job by challenge. "Well," she said, closing the photo insert, "what's in the news?"

Chloe skimmed the paper. "Labor dispute. Labor dispute. Endless labor disputes. Politics in Europe. Riots… here you are, they plan to sell surplus army rations to the people. Max! Millions of pounds of tinned meat, heavily discounted."

Max cringed at the thought. She had been subjected to entirely too much tinned beef during her years in the war.

Chloe continued, "Corned beef—"

"No."

"Roast beef—"

"No."

"Beef hash—"

"Stop."

"Such a bargain!"

"Chloe, I didn't know it until this moment, but never eating tinned beef again is one of the major goals of my life. Please help me achieve this goal."

Chloe was laughing quietly. "Alright, I will support you in this." She continued leafing through the paper. "Hmm… many advertisements… sport… editorials. ' _Myth of law-abiding German'?"_

 _"_ What?"

Chloe began to read. "He takes too long to make his point. Ah, he says 'the German people and the German civilization are notably inferior,' and here are a great many statistics about how criminal we are. Especially when it comes to crimes against chastity. Be careful around a German, Max, your chastity is in danger."

Max giggled. "Oh no!"

"Such nonsense. And here," Chloe continued, "we have 'Introducing the bootlegger'… it seems smuggling liquor is expected to become big business, once this insane prohibition begins. Well, since I am destined by heritage to be of inferior character, and by gender to be unsuitable for such daring tasks as test piloting, perhaps I should consider a life of crime."

"Before you do that, let's check the job listings." This was really what they'd bought the paper for.

"Right." Chloe flipped to the advertising section. "'Help wanted, female.' Maid, matron, model… 'very stunning girl can secure a permanent and interesting position'… I wonder what they mean by 'very stunning'. And by 'interesting'… hmm… office assistant, operator… photographer!"

Max sat up. A listing in the female section for a photographer? Could it be that easy?

Chloe read the ad aloud, her voice dry. 'Retoucher and printer. 331 Dalhousie street, Ottawa, Canada'."

Max's shoulders slumped, and she leaned back on the blanket. "Aargh. They must be desperate to run an ad here. Maybe you should apply to be a model. You're pretty stunning, I'd say."

"I know that, and you know what, but they will say I am too tall."

"Don't be so sure. What about the men's section?"

Chloe turned a couple of pages. "'Help wanted, male. Hmm… Photo retoucher, experienced high class advertising work, also designing and lettering man.' That's all. What do you think?"

"It's better than nothing, I suppose. I'll give it a look tomorrow."

"No listings for pilot, of course. What is a 'poultryman'?"

Max stuck her elbows out, imitating wings, and quietly mocked a chicken's voice. "Buck buck buck."

Chloe cackled with laughter. "Sir, why do you believe you're the best-qualified poultryman for this position?"

More elbow waggling. "Buck buuuck buck buck."

"You are hired!" Chloe flipped back to the earlier pages. "So many listings. I don't think many of these will take a German." She sighed. "I suppose we will see."

"Let's eat." Max was feeling glum. She'd really hoped the big Sunday newspaper would hold more hope for her. She opened up the rucksack and began setting out their lunch, while Chloe idly flipped through the rest of the paper.

Suddenly she froze, her eyes scanning the same words several times. "They…" she began, but then stopped, looking up at Max with an affected blankness. She turned back to the paper, tore a piece out of it, and folded it.

"What?" Max asked.

"Ah… something I need to check."

Max knit her brow, staring at her.

"Probably nothing," Chloe said. "A curiosity."

"Alright," Max said, hesitantly.

Chloe folded the newspaper away, spread out a napkin, picked up the knife and a sausage, began casually slicing pieces onto the napkin. She popped a piece into her mouth, continued slicing. "Tastes just like home! I did not expect it would. See? This city has everything."

Max tried a slice. Intensely smoky, greasy, some unidentifiable spice. Very different from what they had at home or what she'd had in France. "This is delicious," she said. It had been cheap, too, the posted price dropping after an animated conversation between Chloe and the butcher, all in rapid German. A good find.

They finished their lunch, the sausage accompanied by bread and grapes, and Max lay back to stare up into the tree above. It was cooler than the day before. The sun was filtered by thin clouds, and the park thronged with people. She could get some great photos, she was sure, but who would buy them? Even in the park, the city pressed in around her, thrumming with activity, millions of people from all over the world. It should be exciting but, if she couldn't even find a job, what good was it? She reached out and took Chloe's hand.

Chloe rolled to lean over her, alarmingly close to her face, in public. "I would very much like to kiss you," she said.

"Don't you _dare,_ " Max warned, mortified. "The last thing we need is to be written up as the latest scandal in the society pages. Or in the police blotter."

" _They_ are doing it." Chloe gestured to a young couple not far away, a man and a woman, kissing timidly on their own picnic blanket.

"Chloe, please, it's not funny."

Chloe groaned, rolling over onto her back.

"How," Max asked, "am I supposed to relax if I'm afraid you're going to cause a scene? I feel all of the eyes of New York pressing in on us."

Chloe grunted. "Don't worry, Max, I'm not so great a fool. I was saying what I wanted, not what I was about to do."

"When have those two things ever been separated?"

"More often than you may realize. For example, I did not kiss you hello in front of Old Mac yesterday, despite my strong desire to do so."

Max chuckled, smiling sheepishly. "Good lord, she would have had a stroke," she said. "Let's take a walk."

They spent the afternoon ambling around the park, covering its length and breadth, then west to the shore of the Hudson. They walked arm in arm, or held hands, both of which they'd seen other women doing, walking together in the street. It seemed to be permissible.

"It is Sunday, we finally have a kitchen, I would like a proper dinner," Chloe declared.

"Yeah. Something meaty."

"Have you noticed, beefsteak is cheaper here than chicken? Let us take advantage."

"Yes, let's."

They returned to the same German butcher, spending the better part of a dollar on a couple of thick steaks, then visited a grocer to round out the meal. Returning home, Chloe started on dinner, while Max went down the hall to visit Molly. She wanted to see about that club.

Max rapped lightly on the door of #35. It opened almost immediately, Molly looking up at her happily.

"Max! What a nice surprise. Come in, do you need something? Here's my humble home, I know it's not much."

Max stepped into the smallest apartment she'd ever seen. Crammed into one room were a single bed, a sink, a tiny stove, a small, worn table, and a lone wooden chair. A garment rack held a coat and a few dresses, and here and there shoes, books and a few other meager possessions where set on the floor. No bathroom. Molly must have shared with someone else.

"Um," Max began, taking it all in. "I wanted to ask about that club you mentioned. We'd love to visit."

"Of course! I spoke to Sam, you're welcome any time. How's tomorrow evening?"

"Perfect."

"It's a date. I was just having my supper, would you like some?" There was a small pot on the stove, and on the table, a bowl of boiled potatoes and cabbage, with a few carrots and onions. It looked exactly like one of the nearly flavorless meals Max and Chloe had eaten in their first days at the farm. Here in the city, this was the cheapest food there was.

"No thank you," Max said. "Chloe's cooking dinner."

"She terrifies her enemies _and_ she cooks. You really love her, I can tell."

"Ah…" Max hesitated, unaccustomed to such forwardness. She smiled, embarrassed, nodding.

"I wish I had a girl like that, although it'd be a tight squeeze in here!" Molly gestured around at her little place. "But then, maybe it'd just be more fun."

"It's a big city, there must be other girls…"

"Oh, don't get the wrong idea, I've gone with lots of girls. Probably too many, that's… often how I got a hot meal and a roof over my head when I first came over, before I found the job at the store. Plenty of girls here who can afford to be a little generous, see."

Max blinked. "That… must have been hard."

Molly laughed, looking up at Max. "No, not particularly. I'm sorry, this all must seem positively appalling to an educated English air pilot, but I assure you it isn't. It's worlds better than marrying some grim potato farmer in the old country and having a thousand children. This little place is the most privacy I've ever had, and this," she said, gesturing at her peasant's supper, "is what I grew up eating. I'm quite content."

Max relaxed a bit, cheered by Molly's spirit. "We still haven't been able to find work," she said.

"Aye, it's not easy. You checked the newspaper?"

"Yes, we bought today's. I've got a lead."

"Good. Remember to go early, thousands of girls saw the same ads you did. Looking for anything in particular?"

Max nodded. "I'm a photographer, had some experience in the war. I'd like to do it professionally."

"A photographer! Do you have a camera?"

"A 35 millimeter handheld."

"You could open a portrait studio, maybe?"

"That's not really what I like to do. And anyway we haven't got the funds to set up a shop." That wasn't quite true. In a kitchen drawer, underneath their supply of ready cash, was an envelope containing five hundred dollars, enough for them to live comfortably for a year. Or, if it came down to it, sail back to Britain and start over once again. Emergency funds which Max wasn't about to invest in an uncertain business venture.

"If that doesn't work out," Molly said, "there's always Tammany Hall. They can usually find you something, although… well, you see what I can afford. I'm sure you'll do better. You'll need to, if you want to keep that two-room palace down the hall. I wouldn't mind a private bath, I'll admit that. Oh, do you happen to still have the paper? I love to read the news but, you know, it's hard to spare the nickel."

Max nodded. "Of course. I should go see how dinner's coming along, I'll bring the paper."

A few minutes later, Max returned to #35, bearing the rumpled, re-folded newspaper and a plate of steak. She passed them through the door to a grateful Molly, then returned home to sit across the table from Chloe, feeling incredibly fortunate.

* * *

 _Historical note: the newspaper they're reading here is the New York Times from August 10, 1919._


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm afraid the position isn't suitable."

Max exhaled, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She was so sick of that abominable word. "Are you quite certain?" she asked. "Your advertisement seeks someone to do photo retouching, design, and lettering, all of which I'm more than capable of."

The man, late middle-age by Max's guess, drew up, annoyed by her challenge. "Miss Caulfield, my advertisement seeks a man. I have no interest in employing some immigrant girl with so many of our own boys returning in want of work!"

"But—"

"If you are having difficulty supporting yourself I encourage you to do the proper thing and marry posthaste. If your husband has the skills I will gladly employ him."

Max glared at him, imagining the man as one of the dinosaurs in Chloe's novel, wildly out of date but still managing to cling to life.

"Thank you for seeing me," she muttered, striding out.

How would he have treated her if she'd been wearing her sidearm, or, better yet, had come bearing down on him out of the sky with a pair of machine guns and a thousand rounds of ammunition? Marry posthaste, indeed.

That was her only lead for the day. She'd allowed herself to get her hopes up for this one, despite the ad appearing in the men's section of the paper. If you wanted to list in both sections you had to pay twice, and almost everybody in the photography business was male.

Max stood on the sidewalk wondering what to do next, downtown foot traffic flowing around her. A sea of dark-suited men. She turned on her heel and started making her way south to the Battery. She had her camera with her, and getting behind the lens for a while would calm her nerves.

She arrived in time to watch a ferry from Ellis Island disgorge a load of hopeful new immigrants. Herself, two weeks prior. She started shooting. Boys who'd come alone, with simple clothes and little luggage. Families dressed in the traditional styles of their home countries. A rich lady tailed by two porters, each wheeling a huge trunk. It was the same quick aim-and-fire accuracy which had made her an ace in the cockpit, now capturing candid photos before her subjects had a chance to react.

It didn't take long to use up a roll of film, and then she was off to the dark room at the photography shop. The afternoon passed quickly in the quiet darkness, focussed on perfectly developing each shot. She headed home feeling better, with a stack of good images for her portfolio.

There was still plenty of time, she told herself, she just had to be patient.

Arriving home, Max found Chloe at the counter, an apron over her dress, hands working in a bowl of flour. Their lone keepsake from the farmhouse was their hard-won bread starter, a lump of bubbly dough which they'd kept alive through all of their travels. It made deliciously sour loaves which Chloe was fond of, but to keep it going they had to regularly feed it with fresh flour.

Max hugged Chloe from behind, tipping her chin up to reach Chloe's shoulder. "Hey," she said.

"I am too tall," said Chloe, bitterly.

"What?"

"I am too slim." She flipped the wad of dough in the bowl, then angrily punched it down. "I am not slim enough. My shoulders are too broad."

"You… went in for the modelling job."

"My voice is too German! My hips are too narrow."

Max squeezed her. "Oh, Chloe."

"My feet are too large. My gaze is too bold. But most of all, I am too tall."

"How many?"

"All of them." Chloe stopped kneading, leaning back into Max, her eyes closed. "I didn't think I would care. Why would I care? But all day, Max, and it is all men, I have stood and walked and spun for them and they have poked and prodded and they have told me all the reasons why I am unsuitable."

"Chloe… you are beautiful, you know that. You aren't too tall at all. I like that you're tall."

"Hmph."

"Why would you want that job anyway? It sounds excruciating."

"Why not, just for a while? Wear pretty clothes and not be required to speak to anybody. Or so I thought. How have you fared?"

"I could do the job but he won't hire 'some immigrant girl'. He told me to 'marry posthaste' instead of looking for work."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. I imagined what his office would look like after a nice low strafing run. Here," Max said, unlacing Chloe's apron in the back, "we're supposed to go to that club tonight, we should look presentable." They were both smudged with flour.

"I am not in the mood."

"Give it a chance. We didn't come to the big city to be hermits."

There was a knock at the door, and Max opened it, admitting Molly. She looked identical to the previous day, in what must be her standard work attire.

"Hello," the girl said brightly, before pausing. "Oh dear, you two look like you've had a day. What on earth has happened?"

Chloe stood silently dejected, so Max explained. "Still no luck finding a job. Chloe spent the entire day applying for modelling positions."

Molly's face fell. "Oh no," she said, walking up to Chloe, looking her up and down. She put her hands on Chloe's waist, smoothing the loose fabric of her dress against her skin. Chloe stiffened, while Molly walked around her, hands gliding over her waist and back.

When she'd completed a full orbit, she looked up at Chloe, hands resting intimately on her hips. "I'm sorry Chloe, I'm afraid you're simply too uniquely gorgeous for modelling. The idea is for our plainer customers to feel that they can look like the model, but in your case… well, who can aspire to such glorious heights?"

Max thought she saw a little smile form on Chloe's lips, her impatience with Molly's antics losing out to her appreciation of the flattery.

Molly released Chloe and turned to Max. "Now," she said, "Max here is just the right size. We would say she has accessible beauty." She approached and gave Max the same treatment she'd given Chloe, a disconcertingly close inspection, her hands gentle and cool as they moved across her. Molly finally stopped in front of her, idly brushing a bit of flour from the fabric on Max's shoulder.

"Yes, you'd do," she said. "It's a shame about the freckles." Then she shook her head. "But you don't want that job anyway, it's entirely dull, you're both intelligent girls."

"You know the business," Max said.

"Just a lowly stock girl. For now. Can't be a model myself, too short and too Irish. More's the pity, it pays better. Shall we go? I think we need to get some whiskey into you rather urgently."

"Is there schnapps?" Chloe asked hopefully as they filed out.

"We might have some apple brandy," Molly answered, "but surely you know America is the land of corn whiskey. For a few more months anyway, once they shut that down we'll all have to learn to drink smuggled rum."

Molly led them several blocks, then down a set of steep steps to a black, unmarked door into the basement of a brick apartment building. She produced a set of keys and began undoing a series of bolts. "Now," she said, "it is something of an event when new girls come by, so be prepared to be the center of attention. I'll introduce you when we go in. Sam'll fix you a drink. And," she said, looking up at them, "you're safe here. Being together." Then she swung open the door and ushered Max and Chloe inside.

Max could hear the sounds of animated conversation as they passed down a short hallway, and through a curtain into the main room. Almost instantly, the sound died, and Max found herself confronting a room full of women, all looking expectantly at her little group. Women sat in groups around wooden tables, there was a small bar in the corner and, off to one side, the promised piano and phonograph. The walls were adorned with photos of pretty girls. Probably actresses or other minor celebrities, Max guessed. A few were autographed. There were no windows.

"Hey everyone," Molly said, "this is Max, fresh off the boat from England, and here is Chloe, newly arrived German. Both veterans of the war with, I am sure, some very exciting stories to tell. But don't get your hopes up, they're practically married."

Max's eyes widened at this, and Chloe looked at her with alarm, but the reaction in the room was all smiles and nods of welcome. Punctuated by a couple of genuinely disappointed frowns. One woman with army-short blond hair and a powerful build, maybe in her 40's, stood and went behind the bar. She beckoned to Max and Chloe, who moved to sit at a pair of bar stools.

"I'm Sam," she said, "always nice to get new faces in here. First round's on me." Then she raised her voice, "Hey, who needs a drink?" Every last woman in the place raised her hand, and Sam shook her head, setting out a long row of shot glasses. "Why do I even ask? Molly, gimme a hand." She brought out a full bottle of whiskey, emptying it in a neat series of expert pours. "Careful with this one," she said, gesturing to Molly with the bottle, "she's broken half the hearts in here."

Molly picked up two handfuls of glasses, pouting. "And had mine broken in its turn, Sam," she said softly, then began distributing drinks.

Max leaned on the bar, addressing the older woman. "Thanks. We're not really… looking, anyhow."

"So she said. Cheers."

"Cheers!" Chloe echoed, knocking back her shot. Max imitated the motion, instantly regretting it as fire ignited in her throat. Was it gasoline? She sputtered and coughed weakly.

Chloe rubbed her back. "Too strong?" she asked, cheerfully.

Max's voice came out thin and high-pitched. "I'm fine." American whiskey was going to take some getting used to.

"So," Sam said, "veterans, huh? They don't let girls fight. What's your story?"

Chloe grinned. "It is a good one, and not at all short. We will tell you, if you open another bottle."

Sam smirked, nodding, and set another bottle of whiskey on the bar.

Max realized Molly hadn't introduced them as pilots. She spun around on her stool, scanning the room. Likely none of these people had ever even seen an airplane in person. Molly, loitering in conversation with a group seated around one of the tables, glanced up at her and winked.

"We are not just any veterans," Chloe was saying to Sam, relishing dropping the bombshell, "we are airplane pilots."

One of Sam's eyebrows shot up, clearly skeptical.

"Ah," Chloe continued, "we should have brought our medals. It is unlikely but it is true. Max here has sixty-two confirmed victories."

Around them, the conversations which had bubbled up died once again. Max turned to see wide-eyed astonishment from the nearby table, while behind her, Sam emitted a low whistle.

"Well," she said, "you sure don't meet a top flying ace every day, much less in here." She raised her voice again. "Gather 'round ladies, this oughta be a good one."

With a noisy scraping of chairs, a dozen women converged around them at the bar. The nearest ones introduced themselves, shaking hands and saying names which Max forgot as soon as they were uttered. She felt a light touch on her shoulder, and she looked around to Molly, who'd threaded through the crowd to stand next to her.

As Chloe began her tale — with an account of cross-dressing to gain entry to the German army — Max realized that it would be the first time they'd ever told the whole thing. The ambush, the brief and ruinous battle, the crash-landings, the fire. There were gasps and nods of appreciation as Chloe described stripping a sodden and hypothermic Max, climbing into a freezing bed, determined that this beautiful young woman should not die. Her rising frustration, falling in love, sure Max didn't feel the same. Far from being shocked by this, their audience called out encouragements and cheers, growing more enthusiastic as the whiskey flowed. Max found the stuff more agreeable as the night wore on.

Only one detail was left out. That Chloe's plane was painted blue, the reason Max hunted her, was still a closely held secret. Nobody needed to know that the Blue Baron, one of the great villains of the war, walked American shores.

At the end of the story, they fielded a barrage of questions. "But, what's it really _like_ , to fly? Is it wonderful or terrifying or something else?" asked a girl next to Max.

It wasn't something she'd thought about in a long time, and she took a moment to answer. "The pilot doesn't fly, the machine flies, and the pilot sits in the machine. So it's not terrifying at all. It's very noisy, and cold. But seeing the world far below, and the sky all around you? It's the best thing. Well, second best." She patted Chloe's hand.

Eventually the crowd began to slowly disperse, and they found themselves without an audience. Chloe drunkenly leaned over to Max.

"I would very much," she said, "like to kiss you." Max didn't hesitate, she just kissed Chloe as warmly as if they were in their own apartment. She felt a tingle of anxiety, doing such a thing where people could see, but… nothing happened. Nobody reacted. Chloe shuffled her stool closer, a hand sliding along Max's thigh under her dress. That got a reaction, a whistle from a nearby table.

A voice called from the back of the room, "I'm next for that!" and Max pulled away, laughing.

"We should probably go," she said.

"Yeah," Chloe replied, rising unsteadily from her stool. "Let's go home. Where is… Molly?"

Sam, still hanging out behind the bar, shook her head. "You lost her, she's off to break another heart."

"Hah. Did she ever… break yours?"

"Nah. Not my style. I like 'em a little tougher, and I'm immune to those big green eyes. Think you two can find your way home without her?"

Max nodded. "Of course we can… probably."

Sam nodded. "Good." She passed a small set of keys across the bar. "Don't lose these, I've had to change the locks once this year already. Welcome to the Ladies Uninteresting Underground Auxiliary. Careful on the way home, no more handling each other like that until you're in your own apartment with the door locked, understand?"

Max stood, taking the keys and smoothing her dress. "We know," she sighed. They were careful on the way home. Just two friends out for a stroll.


	4. Chapter 4

Days passed. There were no listings for photography positions in the weekday papers. The telephone company ran the same big ad every day, promising "attractive work" in a "permanent position" as a telephone operator. $900 a year. It wasn't bad. All Max would have to do was sit in the bowels of the phone company for six days a week. Better, she supposed, than digging subway tunnels, which seemed to be the job of last resort for the men.

She resolved to give it another week before accepting this fate.

Chloe, with her thick German accent, would have no chance at such work. Her intelligence and education counted for little. Most jobs in the city were closed to her with no consideration. Despite this, she returned each day happy, smiling even as she described another unsuccessful hunt, even as the soles of her shoes wore down.

Max began to wonder what her secret was.

Perhaps it was just enthusiasm for their new friends at the Ladies Uninteresting Underground Auxiliary. The chance to be open as a couple in a social environment was hugely refreshing. Max got to know a more gregarious Chloe, bold and boasting, a cigar in one hand and whiskey in the other. She would hold court, telling war stories to an enthralled circle of ladies, while Max hung out at the periphery, chatting with Sam or Molly or someone else. Now and then Chloe's English would fail her and she'd stammer to a halt, looking up at Max for help. "Synchronization gear," Max would say, or "dead-stick."

"Yes!" Chloe would say, her grin wider than ever, and the tale would resume. Eventually someone would call for music, and they'd crank the phonograph, and then they would dance.

Sam had taken up a collection for a billiards table, and Max had promised to contribute once one of them landed a job. She wanted very badly to photograph the place and the people, but Sam, and many of the members, were adamant that nobody with a camera would _ever_ be allowed inside. It was just too dangerous.

"What if I have my own darkroom? I could bring you the negatives and we could destroy them. And keep the prints here. An album of photographs." Max had proposed.

"And what if we get raided?" Sam had demanded. "Buncha fuzz in here, right now the worst case is they round us up and take us downtown, nothing'll stick. But a copper picks up your album, then what? Evidence. Just forget about it."

"Evidence of what? I'm not going to take photos of girls kissing. If that even is illegal, which I doubt."

"Evidence of being here, having a good time. Whiskey and cigarettes and short skirts and girls dancing together. Coppers don't charge you, they just give your little album to the papers. Then at the very least everybody's out of a job. Maybe out of doors. The answer is no, Max."

Max frowned, defeated. "Have you ever been raided?" she asked.

"Here? No. It's why we keep a low profile, and I make sure I'm friends with the right people. Let's keep it that way, huh?"

"Yeah. Alright."

On Friday afternoon, Max was home alone, morosely sifting through photos, trying to decide which to enlarge as decoration for their apartment. Chloe, as usual, was still out, doing whatever it was that she did all day that never resulted in a job.

A familiar, rapid knock sounded. Max smiled, glad for the company, and opened the door. As she did so, Molly bolted through it, eyes red and rimmed with tears. She slammed the door behind her, grappling Max in a tight hug, burying her face in Max's shoulder.

"Max, thank God you're home," she wailed, "I'm so distraught and I don't know what to do."

Max gently returned the unexpected embrace, her hand on the back of Molly's head. "Molly, what on earth—" she began to ask.

"Mister Lehman, he let me go! He told me my 'services are no longer required' and sent me home. And he didn't even pay me for the week! Max, I don't know what to do…" She started crying pitifully into Max's shoulder.

Max rocked her gently, doing her best to calm her. "Shh now, it's just a job." After a minute, Molly calmed down a little, sniffing. "You said he didn't pay you," Max asked, "is that allowed?"

"No!" Molly spoke into Max's shoulder, apparently content where she was. "He owes me the back wages, but what am I to do about it? He's got powerful friends."

"Did he say… did he give you a reason?"

"He said he was sick of me flirting with the customers. I never did! I'm mostly in the back anyway. He just doesn't want to have a lesbian working there, I'm sure of it."

Max sighed. "Ah, Molly, I'm so sorry. Do you know how he found out?"

Molly shook her head slightly, still pressed against Max's shoulder. "Probably one of the other girls had a hunch and complained. It doesn't matter. Rent is due soon and I don't have it! I can't be out of doors again, I just can't face it, Max what am I going to do?"

"Shh, we'll figure out something." Max stroked the back of Molly's head. "I'm sure you can find a new job. You don't have any… savings you can use in the meantime?"

Molly sniffed. "No, I really don't have it. Any time I got a little extra I put it toward the debt from my passage."

Max had never contemplated the idea of borrowing money to cross the Atlantic. But how else would you do it, if you had nothing? She came to a simple decision. She owed Molly a favor. Bringing her and Chloe to the club, making them feel welcome on the very first day in their new home… it was worth a lot.

"I'll pay your rent this month," she said. "Would that… cover you? Would you be alright?"

Molly pulled away from her, wide-eyed. "You can do that? I'll pay you back just as soon as I can, but… did you find a job yourself? Either of you?"

"Not yet. But if all else fails, I might go in for one of those telephone operator jobs. They're promising nine hundred a year to sit in a box and switch calls, I'm sure there are worse things to do."

Molly shuddered. "That's not much for dull work, not fitting for a war hero. _I_ should try for it though. If they'll take an Irishwoman."

Max disentangled herself and went to the drawer where they kept the money. "How much is your rent?" she asked.

"Fifteen," said Molly. She'd sat down in one of their two chairs.

Max smirked. Molly probably had the lowest rent in the city. But there was only $11 left of their initial spending money; she'd have to dip into the emergency funds to pay Molly's rent. And their own, if they went much longer without work. Well, that's what it was for. Max dug through their papers to the bottom of the drawer, to the reserved five hundred.

But the envelope was empty.

Max's breath caught. She rummaged in the drawer, checking, double-checking. Their money was gone. But not really _their_ money, since almost everything had come from Max's wartime pay.

"Max?" Molly asked. "You look like you've had a shock."

"It's gone," she said, still staring into the drawer.

"What? You mean your money's gone?"

Max steadied her breathing, not moving. "Does anybody besides Old Mac have keys to this place?"

Molly shook her head, "No, and there's no way she'd take anything. She's not nice but she's honest. Maybe Chloe… oh dear. How much is missing?"

"A lot. First-class back to London for both of us. And more." Max was still staring at the empty envelope.

"Oh dear."

"She couldn't have…" Max whirled, stormed into the bedroom. If Chloe had left she would have taken something. Clothes. Keepsakes. Max looked around.

Her novel was still sitting by the bed, on top of the trusty dictionary. Her clothes were still in the wardrobe. Her medals were still in their little box with Max's own. So, she was probably coming back. Max sat down on the edge of the bed, staring into her lap, turning over that idea. _Probably_ coming back.

Molly got up and walked over to her. "Max, you can't think she's run out on you. It's impossible."

"Is it? She lived a lie for four years in the Luftstreitkräfte."

"Well, did she take anything else?"

"No."

Molly sat down next to her on the bed and put a hand on her back. "This has to be some kind of misunderstanding. She must have had a good reason. Maybe she put it in the bank."

That was unlikely, Chloe was highly suspicious of banks. Max silently shook her head, wiping away a tear.

Molly sighed, shifting and taking Max's hand in her own. "Maxine Caulfield. Listen to me. The two of you, it's plain as day. She loves you and she can't hide it for a second. And whatever else she is, she isn't stupid. She's going to come home, and there's going to be a good reason for this, and everything is going to be fine. Alright?"

Max sniffed, nodding.

"I'm going to stay here with you. Tell me about… about your time at the farmhouse. We only got her side of that part of the story."

Max sat silent. She didn't feel like telling stories.

"Come on," Molly said, "it'll make you feel better. Tell me."

Haltingly, Max started telling her version of events. She was not even sure, herself, when she fell in love. One day she wasn't, and the next day she was, and it seemed she had been the whole time. Molly listened attentively, holding her hands tightly and following every word. She was right. It did help. The missing money was, after all, only money. But what had Chloe done with it, without telling Max? That was the hard part.

They didn't have to wait very long before the door clicked open.

"Max?" Chloe called cheerfully, then walked into sight of the bed. She stopped, staring at Max and Molly. "Ah… have I interrupted something?" Her tone was casual but Max could hear the seriousness behind it.

Molly stood, smoothing her dress. "Max is a bit distressed over some missing funds. I was just explaining to her that her girlfriend is completely trustworthy and that she hasn't a thing to worry about. I hope I will not be made a fool. Good evening."

Chloe's gaze followed as Molly showed herself out, then she looked back to Max, her eyebrows raised in alarm.

"Chloe, what… _all_ of it?"

Chloe looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. Then she shook her head. "No, there is still a little bit left. I wish you hadn't found it."

"But Chloe, what have you _done_?"

Chloe closed her eyes and inhaled, taking a deep breath. Then she looked Max in the eye and grinned. "I will show you."


	5. Chapter 5

Max gazed out the window as the train rumbled through Brooklyn. This was as far from the city center as she'd been since arriving in America. Soon they'd left the dense urban area behind, and passed through green trees broken only occasionally by new housing developments.

It had been a long, restless night. Chloe still refused to tell her anything, insisting that the fruit of her investment of almost their entire net worth would be a surprise. It was galling to Max, but eventually Chloe's cheerful confidence won her over and she'd started looking forward to, at the very least, an interesting day.

Chloe had instructed her to wear a shirt and trousers for their mysterious adventure, an act of sartorial rebellion which made Max uncomfortable. She only even owned such clothing because of her past impersonating a man, and it felt odd to put it on without also donning the Maxwell Caulfield persona.

They changed trains at a station in Queens, boarding one headed for Rockaway Beach. Many of their fellow passengers from Manhattan did the same, toting umbrellas and rucksacks and blankets.

"We're going to the _beach?_ " Max asked, incredulous. It was hot, and under other circumstances, she would be delighted. Rockaway beach was a popular summer getaway for city dwellers and there was even, Max had heard, a roller-coaster. But one didn't spend $500 going to the beach.

"We are going… past the beach. Patience, Max. You will see."

Sure enough, they stayed on board when almost everyone else disembarked at Rockaway Beach station. The train turned west along the peninsula, and they rode through a small residential area all the way to the end of the line, a platform surrounded by only a few houses on a wide, dusty road. Chloe led Max along this road until it ended at a tall fence with a gate. Max read the sign. _United States Navy?_

"Chloe," she said, "you haven't enlisted us, have you?"

Chloe laughed. "Far from it. Come along."

"Are we selling military secrets?"

"None."

They approached the little guard house at the gate. "Hello," Chloe said, "I am Chloe Price, I have an appointment with Commander Holden."

The guard checked a list, then nodded. "Ah, I see. Just step this way…"

He gestured them through the gate, and a second guard emerged to lead them into the base, past ranks of long, low, identical buildings. There were very few people about. Max supposed that with the war over, many of the men had been sent home.

They entered an office, and the guard presented them to one Commander Holden, a good-looking man in a khaki uniform. He stood up, extending a hand. "Miss Price! And you must be Miss Caulfield. It's a good day for it, let's go take a look at her."

Her? A boat? Max followed along in perplexity, thrown off by the familiarity of a military base and the strangeness of a depopulated American one. Holden led them out from the cluster of buildings, and a long row of docks came into view.

Docks populated with airplanes.

Naval planes. Floatplanes and flying boats. Max thought her heart skipped a few beats. Were they here to fly, somehow? She gripped Chloe's hand.

It wouldn't make sense; the military was not about to lend out planes. They cost thousands of dollars. As much as a house.

Holden led them out to one of the docks, stopping before an unarmed two-seat fighter. A trainer. He patted the lower wing affectionately.

"Had the mechanics go over everything with a fine-toothed comb, she's good as new and she's all yours," he said, turning to face them.

Max froze, staring at the man. "You mean… we get to fly it?"

Holden blinked, looking at her in surprise. Then he grinned. "She really didn't tell you, I can't believe it. You own it, so yes, I'd say you get to fly it."

"Excuse me?" she stammered. "This is… at least a five-thousand-dollar plane."

"Happy birthday Miss Caulfield, this is a _ten-_ thousand-dollar plane."

"I… what?"

Holden cleared his throat. "Now that the war's over, Uncle Sam in his infinite wisdom has decided to reduce the size of his fleet. Surplus aircraft are to be sold off for a nominal fee of just three hundred dollars. Miss Price here was quick on the draw, there aren't many floatplanes on offer."

Max stood in numb disbelief. She turned to Chloe. "Where are we going to park a floatplane?"

Chloe winked at her. "At a dock on the Hudson. Not far from the apartment. It is all prepared."

Holden nodded enthusiastically. "That's smart thinking. It's no good having to trek to some dusty airfield every time you want to fly."

Max stood back, taking in the plane from front to back. It looked in top condition. Finally, everything clicked into place and her mental gears started turning again. "We're going to fly home."

"Yes," said Chloe, smiling.

"Right now. In our own plane."

"Yes, I brought our goggles—"

Max flung herself at Chloe, wrapping her up in a bear hug. "I love you," she said.

"Ah… thank you?" Chloe said nervously, gently pushing Max away. Oh right, they were in public. With a strange man standing next to them.

"Sorry," said Max, letting go and sheepishly looking down at the dock.

Holden held up his hands. "Not my business. Anyway I understand, it's a hell of a gift. You have prior flying experience, Miss Caulfield?"

Max laughed. "Yes, I should say so." She was grinning ear to ear. "Call me Max."

"Max Caulfield?" Holden said. "I think I've heard that name before."

She shrugged, genuinely curious how well-informed the man was.

"Hmm…" Holden rubbed his chin, then looked up suddenly. "I remember. One lieutenant Max Caulfield shot down the Blue Baron last year but was M.I.A. They both were. It was in all the papers." He regarded Max suspiciously. "A woman? It can't be."

Max met his gaze. "Lieutenant Maxwell Caulfield, at your service. Don't think I could pass? Or that they would never look the other way for the right pilot?"

"Maybe so. I suppose I might. What was it, sixty-something victories?"

"Sixty-two with the baron."

"Remarkable. They never found the baron though. You went down together, right? Whatever became of the man? I bet a million people would love to get their hands on old… von… Preiss." He turned his wide-eyed gaze to Chloe. "No. Impossible."

Chloe gave him a hard look. "Correct, it is impossible. Conrad von Preiss is dead."

He nodded slowly. "Yes, that's probably for the best. I must say… it's a tremendous honor to meet both of you. As it happens I'm part of the training detail here, I don't suppose…"

Chloe shook her head. "No."

"Miss Price, you just bought a combat trainer. Don't tell me you wouldn't love a mock dogfight now and again. I'm sure we could cover your costs, and then some."

Max thought that sounded like fun. "Something to consider once we've gotten used to this machine," she said.

"Good enough for me," said Holden. "Let me show you how everything's set up and we'll get you into the air."

Before long they were strapped in, goggles on and engine running, Chloe in the front, Max in the back. Since the plane was a trainer, both cockpits had controls and instruments, so they could trade off control as they liked. Chloe had chosen well.

They pulled out onto the flat water of Jamaica Bay, then began to pick up speed, the engine roaring, familiar scent of exhaust blowing past. It had been too long. As they lifted into the sky, Max felt a familiar tension return, and she entered her habitual routine. Check and double-check the instruments. Fuel load. Ammunition.

There was no ammunition.

Review mission objectives.

There were no mission objectives.

Form up with wingmen.

There were no wingmen.

Fighting instinct, she leveled off just a few hundred feet above the ground, where they'd be vulnerable to ground fire. But there would be no ground fire.

Max forced herself to relax, feel the flight for what it was, a pleasure cruise. In a place she'd never seen from the air. She sat up taller, looked around, took in the view. It was spectacular. And the best part, Chloe in the cockpit ahead of her, craning her neck to look around.

Below, the tip of the Rockaway Peninsula, to the right, Brooklyn, to the left, New Jersey in the distance. The water was dotted with ships, steaming in and out of New York Harbor. Warm wind whipped through cockpit, tangling her hair.

It was a glorious day to fly. Chloe turned to grin back at her.

Max followed the water, taking them past Staten Island into the harbor, where the skyscrapers of Manhattan loomed before them. She saw a big ocean liner, stuffed with passengers crowded around the railings, approaching Ellis Island, and she turned to dive for it. They roared past at full throttle, level with the ship, and the passengers waved and cheered. Chloe waved back happily.

From there, Max turned toward the statue of Liberty, whipping into a steeply banked, tight turn to circle it, the turning force pushing her down in her seat.

"Yaaaaah!" Chloe bellowed from the forward cockpit, laughing. "At last we are really flying! It is fun to be your passenger, Leutnant Caulfield!"

Max pointed the nose toward Manhattan. She angled to pass the largest of the skyscrapers, skimming past the middle floors of the Woolworth Tower, its top still hundreds of feet above. She caught a glimpse of faces pressed against the glass, and then they were past, flying north along the island. Two minutes later they were over Central Park, an arduous trek through the urban melee reduced to nothing in the air. Then farther north, over the Bronx and the green fields north of the city.

She climbed to a higher altitude to get a better view. The whole area was dotted with small lakes; if they'd brought a lunch they could set down in any of them and have a quiet picnic in total isolation. A project for some future weekend. Max turned east, flying over the corner of Connecticut and across the water to Long Island. Periodically Chloe put out an arm to gesture at something, and Max took them down to pass over whatever it was. Small towns. Boats. Trains. Crowds promenading on the beach. She reveled in the freedom. She could go anywhere. With Chloe.

Eventually, the fuel tank crossed the half-empty mark, and she turned them back toward home, letting Chloe take the controls.

They passed over Manhattan, then turned and touched down gently on the Hudson, pulling up to the end of an oddly-shaped dock connected to a low pier. Chloe killed the engine and hopped down to tie up the plane. Max was still sitting dreamily in the cockpit when Chloe came to help her out.

As soon as her feet landed on the planks, she hugged Chloe again. "Thank you," she said.

"I expected you would push the plane a bit harder, see what it can do."

Max laughed. "I was just enjoying being in the air. Should we go back up? Maybe fly under the Brooklyn bridge, see how many people we can terrify?"

Chloe grinned back at her. "Next time. I need to refuel."

Max looked up to find that the dock had been equipped with a raised tank labeled Aviation Fuel, as well as a good-sized supply locker. Chloe took the hose from the tank and begin refueling the plane.

"Wow," said Max. "Was this already here?"

"No, of course not," Chloe answered. "But the local fuel companies would all like to be the first to supply aircraft fuel. I have convinced everyone of the publicity value. This dock is free for the first half year."

"Did you tell them about the noise?"

Chloe shrugged. "They did not ask."

"How much is the gasoline going to cost us?"

"Today we have used… about five dollars worth."

Max's heart sank. Add the oil, the maintenance… flying was going to be prohibitively expensive. Their little pleasure cruise cost the better part of a week's pay, if either of them even had a job, which they didn't.

Chloe smirked, looking up at her. "Max, do not worry. America is the land of free enterprise. Look at the end of the dock, what do you see?"

Max turned to look. Half of the upper west side had probably heard the plane come in, and a crowd had gathered, several dozen people and growing, just outside a little gate.

She shrugged. "Curious onlookers."

"All potential customers. They have never been in the air, Max, and only we can offer this to them. Go and see."

"Huh." Max walked up to the gate and was instantly met by a dozen shouted questions at once. She answered as many as she could, until a well-dressed man shoved his way to the front.

"Miss, if you please," he began, "I would very much like to take a ride in your machine. I am able to pay, of course."

Fly without getting shot at, and get paid to do it. Max smiled, doing math in her head. A short tour of the city would be about a dollar of fuel, double that to account for maintenance, so three or four dollars would probably be a fair—

"Twenty dollars for a ten-minute tour, plus takeoff and landing," said Chloe, appearing behind her.

The man sputtered. "I say, that's… simply outrageous! I won't pay that."

"Then you will not be the first civilian air passenger in New York City," Chloe answered. "Let us through, please." She made to open the gate. Max stared at her. $20?

Then, from the back, another man spoke up. "I'll take a tour. I have twenty." There was a murmur of astonishment though the crowd, and the man pushed forward to the gate.

It took a while to get underway. A reporter appeared, full of questions for Chloe and Max and their inaugural passenger. Eventually they levered him into the rear cockpit, explaining that if he so much as rested a hand on any of the controls he would certainly die, and that if he felt the urge to vomit is should direct his energies outside the aircraft. Chloe climbed back into the front seat, Max spun the propeller, and they were off.

Subsequent passengers managed to haggle the price down, but three hours later Max and Chloe walked home with $75. A staggering sum for less than a day's work. They knocked on Old Mac's door, handing over $15 for Molly's rent.

Max's mind was racing. She needed to visit a tinsmith. Her plane needed a camera mount. And she needed a new lens.


	6. Chapter 6

The pictures editor looked up at her. "You should have mentioned you had access to an airplane the first time you came in."

The desk between them was spread with aerial photos. A large print showed the whole of Manhattan, taken from high altitude. There was a low, scenic shot from the harbor, Liberty's torch looming in the foreground as a large ocean liner passed behind it. A top-down image of a labor protest outside a Brooklyn factory revealed every hat on every man; the factory owners had claimed only a few dozen protestors, while the union claimed hundreds. Max counted 347 hats. The editor tapped the print with a finger. "I have a photo of this from a fellow on a ladder. He guessed about a hundred, and that's what we printed."

Max allowed herself a smug smile. "He was wrong. There's no substitute for aerial recon, any field commander will tell you that."

"And what would you know about that?"

"More than you might expect. Will you take these, or should I visit the Journal?"

The editor pursed his lips. He turned his attention to the centerpiece of the collection: an incredibly long, narrow photograph, a birds-eye montage of the infamous Fifth Avenue traffic jam at its late-morning peak, from 34th Street to Central Park. The product of a single pass at low speed and hours in the dark room. It wasn't exactly news since it happened every day, but nobody had ever seen it all at once, a continuous column of tightly-packed pedestrians, automobiles, and buses. It was remarkable that anything moved at all.

He held up his hands, framing the awkwardly-sized image. "I'd like to run this, but I'm not sure how I'll fit it on the page… I suppose we can print it as a centerfold, corner to corner… with enlarged details on either side." He nodded to himself. "That should work. Alright, I'll take them all. You'll give us exclusive rights?"

"For the appropriate fee. In this case I'd like you to double to usual amount, payable as an advertising credit."

He balked. "That seems rather excessive, we do have costs—"

Max sighed, reaching to gather up the photos.

The editor put out his hands, holding them down on his desk. "But in this case I suppose I can bend the rules a little. Photo credit to Maxine Caulfield?"

"Caulfield and Price Aviation."

"Sure, sure. You can get me more like this?"

"For the appropriate fee."

He cracked a wry smile. "Guess I should have put you on salary when I had the chance, Miss Caulfield." He jotted a note on a pad of paper, signed it, and tore it out, handing it across the desk. "Take this downstairs to the advertising department, they'll see to you right away."

* * *

Molly opened up to Chloe's knock, slipping quickly into the hall. As the door closed, Max caught a glimpse of movement, someone pulling on her stockings in the tiny apartment. Max looked at Molly quizzically.

Molly sighed, then opened the door again. "Might as well come out Helen, you've been spotted."

Helen, a girl Max recognized from the club, emerged, straightening her hat and smiling timidly. "Hello, ah, good morning Max, Chloe."

Max nodded, struggling not to laugh at the poor girl's discomfort. "Helen." Beside her, Chloe looked amused, her eyebrows slightly raised.

Helen ducked her head, embarrassed. "I should get to work."

Molly caught one of her hands. "I'll come find you when we're done. We'll have dinner."

"Alright, see you," Helen said. As she turned to go, Molly leaned over and gave her a quick kiss.

"See you later," she said.

"Oh!" Helen laughed with surprise, her cheeks pink. "Good luck today! Bye!"

The three of them watched her trot down the hall toward the stairs.

"She's such a doll," Molly said.

"And smitten," Max said.

"Mmm. She's not the only one. Shall we go?"

They walked together to the new office on 12th Avenue. On the way over, Max bought a copy of the Times.

The office had no sign yet, but they had a desk, and a telephone, and a big map of the area around New York City with colored lines indicating tour routes. And there was a back room which would one day be Max's dark room. Through the front glass, they could look out across the road to the dock, where their plane waited at the ready.

As they unlocked the door, the phone rang. Molly rushed in to answer it, picking up the transmitter and holding the receiver to her ear.

"Caulfield and Price Aviation, good morning," she said.

Max unfurled the newspaper on the desk. Chloe looked over her shoulder as she flipped through it until she found their ad.

 **Caulfield & Price Aviation**

 **Air Tours**  
See New York from the Sky  
A Unique and Thrilling Experience  
Affordable Fares — Ladies Discount

 **Aerial Photography**  
Experienced Aerial Reconnaissance Team  
Get a Birds-Eye View  
Rapid Response for News and Emergencies  
Don't spend thousands on property  
without spending tens on an aerial survey

 **One or Two-Way Transport**  
To Rockaway Beach in 15 minutes  
Long Island, New Jersey, Connecticut destinations  
A Fast and Exciting Journey

 **Flight Instruction**  
Master Tomorrow's Skill Today

 **Convenient Manhattan Location**  
Takeoff from 12th Ave at 58th St  
Phone Circle-3 1194

Next to her, Molly was answering a stream of questions on the telephone.

"No sir, I'm afraid the fee is not negotiable. Yes, I have taken the tour. It is quite extraordinary. Yes sir, very experienced. Yes, the plane that went under the bridge. You'd have to ask the pilots about that. Yes. Alright, I'll put you down for two o'clock." She hung up the receiver, opened their appointment book, and wrote. "First appointment, that didn't take—"

The phone rang again. Molly picked up the earpiece. "Caulfield and Price Aviation, good morning," she said.

Across the road, a man holding a newspaper walked onto the pier, approaching their dock.

Chloe tugged Max's elbow. "A customer. Let's see what he wants."

It was a busy first day. In the afternoon they did back-to-back tours, interrupted only when a large warehouse in Brooklyn caught fire. The huge plume of smoke seemed sure to make the news, so they went up together to photograph the conflagration. By the time they landed, three newspapers had called Molly to inquire about aerial pictures.

It was also exhausting. One man had started screaming as soon as they were airborne and had to be brought back and calmed down, and another had grabbed the flight stick in a moment of excitement and sent the plane lurching upward, almost stalling. So they closed up shop at 4:00, handing Molly $4 from the sizable stack of cash from the day. To Max it seemed a bit unfair, but it was double what Molly had made at her last job. She happily took her leave, off to enjoy a night out.

Chloe folded her arms and leaned against the desk. She'd done most of the day's flying. "I suppose we should celebrate, try some expensive restaurant. If they'll have us," she said doubtfully. Nicer places didn't like to serve unaccompanied women, especially in the evening.

Max smiled. "We should celebrate. Not at a restaurant." She went in the back room and returned with a new picnic basket, laden with bread and cheese and potato salad and a bottle of Muscadet. "This city is too crowded. Let's go to the country. We have hours of light left."

Chloe's face lifted. "Lead the way," she said.

They flew northwest, over New Jersey, and Max picked a long, narrow lake to set down in, surrounded by forested hills. There was a lone boathouse and a dock at one end, but otherwise the place was uninhabited. She pulled up to a rocky beach and killed the engine.

They dined together on the bottom wing, legs dangling over the edge, shaded from the late afternoon sun by the larger top wing. It was impossibly quiet compared to the noise of the city. Max listened to nature sounds she hadn't heard in ages, birds singing, gentle breeze sighing through the trees, water lapping gently on the beach.

Chloe refilled her cup with wine and swung her legs up, turning to lean against the fuselage and letting out a long sigh.

"You see, now?" she said. "We were right to come here." She fished in her pocket, bringing out a cigarette.

Max was idly dropping bits of bread to some ducks which had paddled over to inspect the plane. "You were completely right," she conceded.

Chloe lit her cigarette, taking a long puff. "I have been thinking," she began.

"Yes?"

"The world is full of airplanes which no longer have any use. Do you know they made Germany surrender all of the D-7's? What has become of them, I wonder?"

"I have no idea."

"Just before I went south, where you found me, I saw a prototype, a two-seat variant, for reconnaissance."

"…and?"

"It was a very good plane."

Max burst into sudden laughter. "You're _already_ thinking about another plane? When we _just_ got this one?"

Chloe gesticulated, her cigarette trailing smoke. "Max, think of them! So many excellent planes with no home and no one to fly them."

Max shook her head, grinning. "You're ridiculous."

"This one is very practical but it is slow. We could have something _fast._ Or a big one, with a longer range. Or…"

"Or?"

"Or both!"

"Which is first? Hypothetically."

"Fast."

"Of course."

"Do you disagree?"

Max leaned back, laying down on the wing, her head on her hands. The floatplane _was_ a bit slow. "No."

"Then it is decided. Our next plane will be fast."

Max smiled, deciding not to argue the point.

"By the way," Chloe said, "no one is here to see, if you thought you might like to kiss me. Hy-po-thetic-ally." She sounded out the word. "What does that mean?"

* * *

 _Author's note:_ _Thanks to Vulpixels for beta reading this and The Blue Baron. If you haven't already, do yourself a favor and go read her story Wherefore Art Thou for an entirely different take on period Pricefield._

 _Turtleduckie on tumblr did a great illustration of the final scene, but sadly this site doesn't support external links or images. If you want to look it up, it's the final chapter of the AO3 version of this story._


End file.
